Power Play
by Tinselcat
Summary: Slash, RincewindVetinari (I kid you not!) Sequel to "The Politics Of..." Vetinari is kidnapped, Vimes is baffled and Rincewind is terrified, as usual. Chapter 6 is present!
1. Default Chapter

Power Play: Chapter 1: Rain By Tinselcat (yo!)  
  
Rating: PG Summary: Standard Tinselcat-style teaser. Disclaimer: Vimes, Vetinari, Ankh-Morpork and Discworld are creations and property of the amazing Terry Pratchett *bows*, and no profit is being made from the use of the copyrighted material (if there was, I wouldn't have to worry about paying off my student loans, dammit!!).  
  
Author's Note: Okay, right now I'm trying to finish up another fic for another fandom, but I decided to get this teaser up because I read a review of "The Politics Of" where someone was concerned that the sequel hadn't been posted yet (Trust me, I was as shocked as anyone that someone would even *want* to read a sequel! *tips hat to concerned reviewer*). It's doubtful that I'll spend too much time on this until that other fic is done, but I thought is should post this to let readers know that I havn't forgotten about it, and it will be updating, it's just a matter of time. The other fic that I'm writing is approaching the end anyway, so it shouldn't be long. Have faith! Have faaaaaaiiiith!!! *starts singing "Faith"*  
  
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It had been raining in Ankh-Morpork for days. It had started out as light showers, scattered during the night, merely heavy clouds during the day. It had turned into a steady rain and on this night, it had finally turned into a downpour, as if the gods were draining their tub water accumulated during the last ten years in this one night. It was that strange time between the end of the night and the beginning of the day, when even during a normal, dry period, the streets would be almost empty, the early-risers just waking up and the leftovers from the night were staggering home: hopeless drunks finally forced to exit the bars and the last lonely whores who had to go home without any profits.  
  
The rain drummed steadily on the cobblestones, until it became a monotone, white noise that was no longer noticed. Presently, another noise was noticeable above the rain, like a magnified accent of the steady staccato: the sound of hooves, plodding slowly and steadily through the streets. Through the shimmering gray curtain a figure became visible: a large, wide horse, weariness visible in its every dragging step, laden with bags that hung limp and nearly empty upon its back. A heavy cloak-shrouded figure whose stride was just as reluctant led the animal, hood pulled low over the hidden face, shoulders slumped.  
  
The two approached the gates to the patrician's palace. The two sullen guards, startled to see anyone on the streets in such weather, emerged from their card game in the guardhouse.  
  
"Who goes there?" one called gruffly.  
  
"I need to see the patrician." The voice was devoid of emotion, but a slight tremor underneath the careful monotone revealed the lack of such detachment.  
  
"Sorry, no can do, kid. No one enters the palace without authorization."  
  
From within the visitor's robe was drawn a crumpled piece of paper, which the guard took and opened. He scrutinized it, seeing the patrician's seal at the bottom of the hastily-written message.  
  
After squinting at it for a few minutes, and having his fellow guard squint at it for a few minutes, they mutually decided that it wasn't worth arguing over while standing in the rain. "All right, just don't try to kill anyone."  
  
"I won't make any guarantees." The traveler murmured before passing the guards and heading through the now-open gates.  
  
  
  
*Two weeks earlier. . .*  
  
"I don't know about this. . ." the man grumbled and rubbed the back of his neck nervously, "The patrician has always had me paid well. And. . . well, you know, no one has ever gotten away with trying to do away with Lord Vetinari. He's got spies everywhere, you know."  
  
"And aren't we lucky that we managed to procure one of them for ourselves?" said the thin, spindly man on the other side of the desk. He gestured toward the desk's surface, indicating what might be found there if his hired flunky was successful, "I can get you out of the country with more money than you know what to do with as soon as the job is done."  
  
"I dunno. . ." the man chewed on a fingernail, "Even if this works, how are you going to hang on to him? The City Night Watch're tougher than they used to be. That Vimes character, he's the cause of it all. I hear they've got a werewolf and some dwarf that wears a dress and-"  
  
"Why don't you let us worry about all that. As long as you get your job done. . ."  
  
The man sighed, eyeing the other's long fingers as they tapped, spider- like, on the surface of the desk. "What are you planning on doing with him? You're not going to kill him, are you?"  
  
"No. I can assure you of that."  
  
"Well . . . as long as I'm not aiding in a murder."  
  
"No. Definitely not a murder."  
  
"All right then. I'll do it."  
  
  
  
Vetinari, with a fluid gesture of his thin hand, signed the parchment, sealing the trade deal with Lancre. The negotiations had been tedious. Apparently the new king was a complete bubble-head and hadn't the faintest idea of how to go about things. So he let a trade advisor do the negotiations for him. Unfortunately, this advisor was one of the best, his intellect and capacity for scheming almost equal to Vetinari's own. One might say it was a battle of titans with impeccable manners. Eventually, Vetinari got the better end of the deal, and the other negotiator slunk back to Lancre to lick his wounds. The only thing left to do was to send the paperwork to his end for his signature on Vetinari's copy.  
  
A knock sounded on the door.  
  
"Enter." Said Vetinari absently, recognizing the particular tone and pressure of Drumknott's knuckles on the door.  
  
"Will you be taking you supper, sir?"  
  
"Have it sent in. Then you may be dismissed."  
  
Drumknott nodded silently and backed out. He really needn't have asked at all, but respected the formality of the thing.  
  
Vetinari neatly placed the parchment in his version of the 'out' pile and shuffled through more papers, seeing all too many matters that demanded his immediate attention. Not that he minded. Legal matters could so consume his mind that the outer world would fade away before neatly written letters on a sheet of paper: proper, neat and controlled. The constant maintenance of such an environment was one of the many keys to his success as a patrician, and to his power. Losing control was a bad thing. It led to mistakes, and mistakes were one thing he couldn't afford.  
  
But.  
  
That wizard. . . he had certainly lost control there. What had he been thinking? Lord Vetinari does not indulge in the pleasures that so bother the common folk. He was above such things. Had it really only been three months ago? It seemed like an age. An age during which he did his work, took his meals by himself and walked quiet, cold hallways, footsteps echoing faintly, the air smelling of the coming winter. He couldn't even look forward to a distraction from that energetic disaster, the girl Brian. He had tried to convince himself, innumerable times, to firmly tell her, once and for all, that the Patrician's Palace was not her hotel, and he was certainly not her bellboy. But the thought of never seeing that blue-eared feline bounding down the halls and bumping into things depressed him, though he would never show it. Besides, it's not like she would listen to any command of his anyway. She had a tendency to hear what she wanted to. But she was off, now, wandering about as she was wont to do.  
  
There was another, more timid knock on the door.  
  
"Enter."  
  
The maid came in and deposited a tray on his desk. Bobbing a quick curtsey, she left.  
  
The food was simple, the way he liked it: bread, broth, some steamed vegetables and a goblet of water.  
  
His eyes focused back on his work, skimming documents for the important words and phrases, a necessary adaptation for someone in his line of work. He absently reached for the bowl of broth, bringing a spoonful to his lips and sipping it carefully. His eyes unfocused and left the paper. His brows furrowed. He leaned forward and sniffed the broth that had left an odd, bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He abruptly stood up. It could be poison, a drug, or simply a bad batch of broth. He wasn't about to take any chances. He reached for the cord that would summon a servant, trusting that he hadn't drunk enough of the broth to have any affect on him.  
  
Another knock came on the door, this time more of a pounding: something urgent.  
  
"Yes,"  
  
He recognized the burly, bearded man as one of his most trusted and well- paid spies. His rough appearance was deceiving; he'd had a fine education and had been honored to serve the patrician.  
  
"Lord Vetinari! I have come to warn you! Someone may have drugged your dinner!"  
  
"Yes, I presumed as much from the taste. Whoever was responsible should be reprimanded for shoddy work."  
  
"You could taste it?"  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"I guess you took enough, then."  
  
Vetinari only had time to narrow his eyes before they went out of focus and the last thing he saw was the carpet rushing up to meet him.  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Bad Tinselcat! You're doing it again! Bad, bad, bad! *slaps self on wrist*. Hang offs. . . I hate it when other authors do it, but I do it all the time. Hypocritical, much? I think so. . . So, in case you didn't read the note at the beginning, it may take me a some time to start regular updates on this baby, but they are coming, so don't worry. *waves to all the Discworld fans* I'm baaaaaaaaack!!!! 


	2. Of Kidnapping and Clerks

Power Play: Chapter 2: Of Kidnapping and Clerks By Tinselcat (yo!)  
  
Rating: PG Disclaimer: Vimes, Vetinari, Drumknott, Carrot, Angua, Unseen University Ankh-Morpork and Discworld are creations and property of the amazing Terry Pratchett *bows*, and no profit is being made from the use of the copyrighted material (if there was, I wouldn't have to worry about paying off my student loans, dammit!!).  
  
Author's Note: Okay, people, I want you to PUT those damn pitchforks down RIGHT NOW! I posted another chapter, SEEEE! Now you have no reason to kill me and- hey! You! I see that tazer! Put it down! PUT it DOWN! Thank you. Sheesh.  
  
One thoughtful reviewer mentioned that they wanted to see more humor in this chapter. The first part of this story probably won't have much in the way of humor, but it will make a return in phase two, I promise.  
  
Don't kill me.  
  
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"I told the palace guards everything I know. Perhaps you should consult them. . ." Drumknott pushed his spectacles up his nose and raised and eyebrow.  
  
Vimes recognized the famous Vetinari-brand-cynical-sarcastic-eyebrow and had to tightly clasp his hands behind his back to keep from grabbing the clerk's face and yanking the damn thing back into place. "Let's pretend," he gritted through his teeth, "that the palace guards have a silly little problem with the Nightwatch. Let's also pretend they don't want to talk to me. Getting into the game yet?"  
  
Drumknott sighed as if an unbelievable burden had been loaded upon his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair. "Lord Vetinari was taking his dinner in his office. I saw the maid enter and leave. I heard a scuffle in the hallway outside the anteroom, and went to investigate. Someone grabbed me from behind and put a foul-smelling rag to my mouth. The next thing I remember is being woken up by the guards. That was this morning."  
  
"Right." Said Vimes. He looked at Drumknott from the corner of his eye. The clerk's hands were clasped, white-knuckled, in his lap. Perhaps he wasn't as detached as he seemed. During his bad days when he was determined to think ill of everyone, including Constable Carrot, who was the least ill person he knew of (extremely healthy, in fact), he would speculate that that "insidious snake" Vetinari took advantage of Drumknott in his blatant nerdiness. When Vimes was feeling more realistic, however, he realized that the latter thought just didn't seem the patrician's style. Why take advantage of someone when you could twist their minds so severely that they would go rushing off to all corners of the disc (figuratively speaking, of course) at a flick of a long, thin finger resulting in severe head trauma due to several serious impacts with the nearest convenient wall per day. Vimes cut of this line of thinking before he got carried away. More-so.  
  
"Commander?"  
  
Vimes turned sharply about and tried as hard as he could to imply that he was not thinking about Vetinari's sexual tendencies. Vetinari. Sex, Eeeeeew. . . That was just not something he wanted to think about. What kind of underwear does a man like that wear anyway? Black, just like the rest of his clothing, or did he have some unknown wild side that could only be expressed where it couldn't be seen?  
  
"Commander!"  
  
"Sorry. Just thinking." Snorted Vimes. He took out his notebook and glanced at what he had so far. Next to nothing. "Another question, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."  
  
Drumknott's athletic eyebrows implied that it was, but he simply replied, "None at all."  
  
"Have any of the staff gone missing since last night? Like the maid, for instance."  
  
"No. No one is missing. All staff are accounted for."  
  
"And you've been able to determine that all the staff with access to the various parts of the palace are present within a precious few hours?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Ah. Yes." Vimes paused. After years of dealing with deceit, he'd been able to pick up an uncanny ability to spot bullshit from a mile away (figuratively speaking). The kid was good. Something had to rub off on him after all the time he spent with one of the most scheming, twisted and conniving mind on the disc. However, he wasn't quite there yet.  
  
"Look," growled Vimes, "do you want to find Vetinari or not?"  
  
Drumknott gave him a narrowed-eye look that would have been scathing if his hair wasn't sticking up on one side. Vimes figured he hadn't seen a mirror since his rude awakening that morning.  
  
"Look," said Vimes, "the Nightwatch is probably the best chance you have of finding your boss. In all honesty, I can't blame you if you want to leave the job to the palace guards who couldn't find their asses with a map, but if any kind of thorough investigation is going to happen, you're going to have to be up front. Got it? Now, tell me, is any of Vetinari's staff missing?"  
  
"One man." Replied Drumknott, his eyes straying to the nearby window, "His name is Clark. He's our insider in the Henchmen's Guild. He hasn't been seen since last night. I already sent someone to the guild to look for him. There's been no sign of him for days."  
  
"Right. Thank you."  
  
"Will that be all, Commander?" Drumknott was drumming his fingers on his desk.  
  
"Yes. That's all."  
  
Carrot fell in step beside him outside in the hall. "What's our course of action?"  
  
Vimes tried to stall by working some unidentifiable smidge of food from between two molars. Eventually Carrot began to give him an odd look, and the jig was up, "Haven't the faintest. Never happened before. Big, big, big problem."  
  
"I'll inform Detritus, sir-"  
  
"No, not that kind of big." He meandered back and forth across the hall, his eyes picking out anything that may be unusual. So far, he'd found a piece of lint, some gum and an annoyed-looking guard.  
  
Vimes heaved a growling sigh as he and carrot exited the palace and strode into the street. "Luck." He muttered.  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"That's all there is to solving a case, or saving the day. Luck. That's the only real tool a watchman has on his side is a series of lucky breaks and the brains to figure out what they mean."  
  
Carrot's brow furrowed. You know, I never thought of things breaking as being very lucky. . ."  
  
"No, I suppose you don't." mumbled Vimes.  
  
"So, what do we do now?"  
  
"W e make use of the Nightwatch's resident werewolf."  
  
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Drumknott's eyes followed Vimes until he was out of site of the palace. Which was a distance of about fifteen feet. He frowned. He didn't like to depend on Sam Vimes to find Vetinari, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Someone on the inside had betrayed them. That meant he should question the loyalty of anyone, although it seemed unlikely that anyone else from the palace was involved.  
  
Drumknott knew it was up to him to keep things organized until Vetinari's return. He couldn't help but feel a nagging doubt about that point though. Vetinari: captured. It was surreal. It hadn't even occurred to him that such a thing was possible. He drummed his fingers on the windowsill. He had a reputation to maintain. Also a city to maintain. It was essential that he not let it show that he was compelled to begin screeching like a banshee and waving his arms in hopeless desperation. No, that would definitely be a bad idea. He permitted himself a scowl. That sick feeling of perpetual chronic worry had settled in his stomach like a slightly acidic lead weight. And it wasn't going anywhere. Not while Vetinari was still at large (or rather, at thin and tall). He had picked up more than a few of the Patrician's frosty and sarcastic mannerisms, which made it hard to make friends. This, however, had never been too much of a concern for him. Why spend time with people who would tell you your hair looked nice just because you're having a bad day when you could spend it with someone who would tell you up-front that you looked a wreck and sent you off to do something about it. He didn't really consider Vetinari a friend. . . a man such as that didn't really have them, perhaps with the exception of Leonord Da Quirm, who would be your friend whether you wanted him to or not. But Vetinari's clerk still held his boss in a sort of regard that most clerks don't have for their bosses. For instance, he'd never wanted to stomp on Vetinari's head until it was a bloody pulp on his shoes. He'd never had any severe bad feelings toward him. Drumknott realized that, while he wasn't so presumptuous as to call himself Vetinari's friend, he knew that if anything happened to the man, he would feel awful about it. Perhaps for the rest of his life.  
  
He sighed and left the window. He sat at his desk and pulled out two blank sheets of paper. Two people. Out of all of Vetinari's subjects, all of his acquaintances, all of his political connections, even his family, Drumknott could only think of two people, besides commander Vimes, of course, who would want to know about recent events. He certainly didn't feel as if he, personally, owed either person anything, but he knew he would feel more comfortable not being the only non-friend knowing about this. Wisely, he was trying to keep the news from the general public. He wrote a short, concise letter on each page. He then entered Vetinari's office and crouched behind the desk. Somehow, it didn't seem right to use the Patrician's chair, as if using it would ensure that its original owner would no longer need it.  
  
He tapped on the underside of the desk, releasing a shallow hidden drawer. His hand found the cold metal of Vetinari's seal and the stick of wax. He folded the letters and sealed them both, the specially created wax fading from red to black where the cold metal touched it. It took on a slight iridescence as it cooled. Thus, it was easy for the palace guards to recognize someone bearing the official seal, since the wax was nearly impossible to reproduce, except for Leonard.  
  
He sent for a messenger, who he gave one letter, and sent to the Unseen University.  
  
The other he took outside with him to the garden. His eyes scanned the flora-oriented aspect of the famous works by Bloody Stupid Johnson. Finally, sticking two fingers in the corners of his mouth, he gave a shrill whistle. Presently, a small cat-sized dragon came flapping awkwardly from the deep ditch that had claimed so many gardeners in the past. It settled on Drumknott's extended arm, flicking its tongue out at him several times. Drumknott held the letter out to it. It took it in its small claws, holding it securely against it's scaled belly. Drumknott thrust his arm in the air and the animal took off, flapping in several loops first, before seeming to decide which direction it was going in and flying off. It passed overhead three more times before finally sticking to a direction. Drumknott made a mental note that it was headed hubwards. He entered the palace again and returned to his desk where he sat quietly by himself.  
  
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Vetinari awoke in darkness. He felt cold stone beneath him. He lay there for several moments, collecting his thoughts. Kidnapped. Someone had kidnapped him. Shit. He would have cursed himself for any kind of laziness or idleness that had caused his guard to slip, but that would have been a waste of time. Already his mind was working at full capacity, the wheels and cogs of his brain spinning and working with efficiency. He slowly sat up. His hands were free. This was a plus. It seemed one of his ankles was manacled to the wall. This was a minus. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he noticed a very small barred window in what had to be a door. Plus. He shivered with cold and realized that his only garments were the somewhat shredded remains of his black robes, wrapped about his waste. This meant no hidden weapons. Definitely a minus. He stood up and tried to approach the door. His leg chain only allowed him to get halfway there. He stood as still as he could, closing his eyes. Eventually he was aware of soft breathing coming from outside the door. A guard. He took a breath in order to address his captor when light flooded the cell from outside the window. It was the flickering, guttural light of a torch getting closer. Low, indistinct voices followed. A face peered through the bars.  
  
"Greetings, Lord Vetinari." Said an amiable voice, "It has been quite a while since our last meeting, hasn't it? I feel that we left on a bad note last time, and I would sincerely like to make it up to you." The man grinned and began to laugh. It was a chilling, true laugh that came from a cold heart truly amused with something.  
  
Minus. Definitely a minus.  
  
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Okay, so that chapter was short. Sorry bout that. Oh, and my interpretation of Drumknott is based on mostly assumptions on my part. I finished Men at Arms only recently, so I've only really known Drumknott for one book. Anyway, I hope it's not too off the mark. The way I see it, he's the kind of character that people can interpret pretty freely anyway. I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up, but I'm on summer vacation now, so I've got some free time. On a negative note, I've also got work. I'll try to update this pretty regularly, though. Anyhoo, hope y'all like the story so far. 


	3. Frustration Never Got You Anywhere

Power Play: Chapter 3: Frustration Never Got You Anywhere  
  
By Tinselcat (yo!)  
  
Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Vimes, Vetinari, Drumknott, Carrot, Angua, Unseen University Ankh-Morpork and Discworld are creations and property of the amazing Terry Pratchett *bows*, and no profit is being made from the use of the copyrighted material (if there was, I wouldn't have to worry about paying off my student loans, dammit!!).  
  
Author's Note: The wait for this chapter wasn't so bad, huh? I'm dividing my time between work, reading, writing, and trying to revive an almost nonexistent social life. That was probably more than you needed to know, but it's the truth I tell you! The truth! I never lie! And if I did, the devil made me do it! Hah!  
  
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Like a dusty, bedraggled parrot with clipped wings, Rincewind dashed through the gates of the Unseen University. His threadbare robes flapped about his legs. He held a crumpled piece of paper in one hand, and held the brim of his hat with the other. He skidded around a corner, nearly bowling over Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler in the process.  
  
"Sorry," he called breathlessly over his shoulder as he pounded toward the palace gates that had just come into sight.  
  
"Sausage inna bun?" Dibbler called hopefully after him. He didn't really expect an answer, not from that one anyway. He spotted a couple of touristy- looking people and grinned. Today's prospects were looking up.  
  
Rincewind, unable to stop himself due to his tremendous momentum, rushed past the guards in a dusty red blur and crashed into the gates. Presently, out of the same morbid curiosity that draws people to car wrecks and reality TV, the guards approached the awkward wreckage that lay in a heap at the bottom of the iron gates. From the tangle of limbs, like a phoenix rising from its ashes, came a skinny arm, clutching a piece of paper. For a moment it resembled a ragged flag of surrender. "Gotta get inna palace. Urgent."  
  
One of the guards gingerly took the paper and examined the red and black seal. He looked at his companion. They both shrugged. One of them unlocked the gates, causing the angular, bony mess to fall inside the gates.  
  
It took Rincewind several moments to sort himself out. When he did, he took off at a run again into the palace and toward what he hoped would end up to be the oblong office. If he could avoid the dungeons while he was at it, all the better.  
  
Drumknott was occupying his mind with the monotony of filing when a red blur passed by the doorway. There was a crash. In a few moments, the blur passed again, going in the other direction. There was another crash and some swear-words. Eventually, the scrawny, scruffy shape of the wizard staggered in and slumped against the doorframe.  
  
"Where is he?" heaved Rincewind after regaining his breath.  
  
"I don't know." Replied Drumknott sedately. He gave Rincewind a sidelong, disapproving glance. "You didn't have to rush over here. I'll notify you when Lord Vetinari is found."  
  
"What. . . what. . ." sputtered Rincewind indignantly, "but when. . . how. . . I. . . guhbleeeeh!!" the discouraged wizard finally exclaimed as his shoulders slumped.  
  
"I agree," replied Drumknott, "but there's nothing we can do but wait."  
  
Rincewind put his head in his hands.  
  
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Vetinari stood upright as he heard the keys jingle in the lock to his cell. He stood rigid and still, his face a careful, blank mask. Two guards entered and stood with torches on either side of the door. A tall, thin man entered. His thin lips twisted into a smile as he peered at Vetinari over the tops of his spectacles, which reflected the light from the torches, making it seem as if there were two round holes in his head, showing the fiery depths behind his skin.  
  
"I do hope you have not forgotten me, Lord Vetinari. . ."  
  
Vetinari raised an eyebrow, "You work for Lord Delamorte." Replied Vetinari simply. "You are Wallace, his assistant."  
  
"Yes," murmured Wallace, clasping his hands casually behind his back and sauntering up to Vetinari, "My lord was quite. . . shall we say. . . peeved when you ordered the destruction of his outpost in Klatch. And right after we allowed your army to enter the area. . ." he shook his head and gave a low chuckle. He began to circle Vetinari, his eyes sliding up and down the patrician's near-naked form.  
  
"I had expected Lord Delamorte to realize my tactical position. Under the circumstances it was much more prudent to sign a treaty with the emperor at the capital than a quite unpowerful lord with delusions of self- importance." Vetinari sneered, throwing a disdainful look over his shoulder at the captor that stood behind him.  
  
Wallace chuckled and laid a thin-fingered hand on Vetinari's bare shoulder.  
  
There was an almost invisible flurry of movement and Wallace suddenly found his hand twisted behind his back at a nearly bone-breaking angle, with another long-fingered hand grasping his neck at the jugular, the patrician's breath scalding the back of his ear. Despite the pressure on his throat, Wallace began to laugh: another chilling sequence of sounds beginning in his gut and bubbling from his throat.  
  
"Clever," he sneered, "I suppose it's my fault for expecting any less from you. Milord warned me that you were a dangerous man. It seems I've underestimated you."  
  
"Your guards will release me and give me passage to the outside. Unless, of course, you aren't terribly attached to your esophagus." His voice was calm, but his fingers tightened about Wallace's throat, digging into the flesh, implying just how much damage he could do.  
  
One of the guards started forward uncertainly but stopped, seeing the calm smile on his master's face.  
  
Vetinari took a sharp breath through his nose as he felt cold steel press against his stomach.  
  
"It is not my intention to kill you, Mr. Vetinari, but you're pushing my patience thus far." He prodded the thin-bladed knife into his captives abdomen. Vetinari felt a thin trail of quickly-cooling blood slide down over his skin and soak into his tattered robes. "What will it be?" Wallace murmured.  
  
Vetinari released Wallace's wrist and throat and stepped away, "You cannot hold me forever." Vetinari's eyes were narrowed to angry slits with a cold, dark glint.  
  
Wallace suddenly spun on his heel, his knife-wielding hand sweeping through the air at a startling speed. Vetinari's head turned as the blade sliced across his cheek, leaving a cut below his eye. Wallace stepped up close to him and planted a hand on Vetinari's narrow chest. He shoved the patrician hard against the stone wall and thrust the blade underneath the captive's chin. "I don't intend to hold you forever." He sneered, "this is only the beginning." He stepped away and exited the cell. The keys clanged in the lock as the cell became dark once more. "I would get some rest, if I were you." Wallace's voice echoed back down the passage, "because it will be the last you will get for a good while."  
  
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Angua trotted into Vimes' office, buckling the last buckle on her breastplate and shoving a few stray strands of hair from her face. She waited at ease next to the door until Vimes was finished conversing with Detritus, which was taking some time.  
  
"I want you to go on rounds in the Shades, understand?"  
  
"You want I should walk in circles out of the light? Okay." He turned to lwave.  
  
"No! nononono! I want you to patrol that area of the city."  
  
" 'trol the city?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Me?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Detritus' eyebrows came together with a grinding sound, "But city already 'trolled. Trolls live in city for lotsa time."  
  
Vimes began to massage his temples. "Detritus,"  
  
"Yes, c'mmandor."  
  
"I want you,"  
  
"Yes c'mmandor."  
  
"To go to the Shades,"  
  
"Go inna shade. . ."  
  
"And walk around."  
  
"Walk inna circle."  
  
"Aaaargh!"  
  
"An' lotsa boiling oil."  
  
"Just. . . just. . . follow Nobby and Cheri."  
  
" 'kay"  
  
"You're dismissed."  
  
" 'kay." Detritus shuffled out, nodding at Angua as he passed her.  
  
"Report, Lance-Constable Angua." Sighed Vimes, gently resting his forehead upon his desk.  
  
"It doesn't look good, Commander. Whoever is behind this was prepared for me. The trail was already faint to start with, but the scent was completely lost after it crossed the bridge. They used some sort of agent that irritates my nose and spread it all over the ground. I still can't smell much, but it's slowly coming back."  
  
"Can you track the agent?"  
  
"Theoretically, if I sniff for about a minute then rest for probably a couple days, but it would take forever to get anywhere. By then, who knows what could happen?"  
  
Vimes sat up and nodded. "shit." He growled. He stood up and paced to the window and commenced to scowl at the city. "He could be dead by now."  
  
"If he isn't dead by now, it's doubtful that they'll kill him at all."  
  
Vimes glanced at her over his shoulder, "That could be worse."  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
Vetinari awoke to the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway toward him. He slumped against the wall facing the door. His eyes fell on the bowl of stale water which was the last thing he'd consumed. He had no idea of the passage of time. It had become measured only with the changing of the guard and the tapping of their boots along the corridor. Not even they carried torches and Vetinari's eyes had become accustomed to the light. He found himself feeling the absence of rats, who he had been able to organize and govern the last time he was locked up. Even then he had felt powerful. He had been secure in the knowledge of his own superiority. But now he was alone in the darkness. No plan, no escape route, none of his meticulous thoughts and exact knowledge could help him now. The only thing he could do was wait for the next opportunity- any opportunity- to get leverage from his current position.  
  
He stared at the barred square of light in the door as it became brighter. Usually the presence of light brought people hope. *how easily can society's symbols be twisted. . .* he thought wryly to himself as the door swung open on predictably creaky, rusty old hinges.  
  
Wallace strolled in, a smirk on his face., "How are we doing today?" he placed his hands on his knees and leaned down toward Vetinari so their eyes were almost level, "As our special guest, you'll be getting the executive treatment."  
  
"I don't suppose your communication skills our quite advanced enough to understand that whatever information you hope to extract, you won't receive it from me."  
  
"It's not information that I want from you." Said Wallace softly. He straightened and gestured to the guards.  
  
Vetinari grunted as he was hauled upright by his arms. One of the guards threw one end of a rope through a metal loop in the ceiling of the cell. He bound Vetinari's wrists together and hoisted them above his head until the patrician was forced onto his toes. He clenched his jaw and pressed his lips tightly together, refusing to let Wallace see the quickening of his breath or that his heart was speeding up, pumping against his chest like a hammer to his ribs. He knew what was coming.  
  
There was a quick *whish* of air, a sharp crack, and Vetinari felt a burning, stinging line like a streak of fire cross his back. There was another snap, and another acid stripe joined the last one.  
  
Wallace frowned as he brought his arm back for another blow with the slender, cruel whip. He had expected some sort of reaction. Not a big one, but something nonetheless. He thrust his arm forward and another blow landed. He noticed that Vetinari's shoulders had begun to shake. Guttural, choking sounds came from the patrician. He was pleased and confused at the same time. Progress was being made sooner than he had anticipated, if he had already managed to drive Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork to tears. It was with a clenching in his gut, as the strange sounds got louder, that he realized that Vetinari was laughing.  
  
Vetinari was in pain. But somehow, it all seemed so absurd. Another throatful of laughter bubbled through his lips. It started low, in his chest, then became more high-pitched, like a drunk banshee. Another blow landed, but this only prompted him to more laughter. Here he was, the patrician of Ankh-Morpork, one of the most powerful men on the disc, controller of the largest city on this world, standing in a dungeon taking a flogging from some grudge-holding flunkie. He had no control. Nothing at all, neither blasphemy or reason would make any kind of difference to the man behind him.  
  
Wallace abruptly stopped when he saw that Vetinari's back bore a bright red criss-cross pattern, the stark color against pale flesh slowly bleeding down from the initial stripes, like the final masterpiece painting of a madman. "But this isn't my final masterpiece. . ." the captor murmured underneath his breath.  
  
Vetinari's laughter subsided into small, low chuckles that still held no humor, almost as if they were coming from a dead man. A dead man that nonetheless could look his tormentors in the eye and sneer.  
  
"Well," said Wallace, trying to mask his surprise at Vetinari's strange reaction, "I'm glad you find this situation so amusing."  
  
The guard cut Vetinari down. He tried to remain standing, but his knees buckled and he fell to them. His laughter had faded and he was breathing hard, his icy stare boring into the wall in front of him.  
  
"I think you'll find that from here on, there won't be much to laugh about. Enjoy your night. . ." Wallace dragged his gaze over Vetinari's thin form once more. He licked his lips, but frowned and marched out of the cell when he failed to get a reaction.  
  
Vetinari was left alone in the dark once more. He knew about torture. Research of different methods had always been a subject of light reading for him. There were plenty of extremely painful things they could do to him. Things that dragged on. Things that could drive a man insane, if only to escape his body and mind to ease the pain. But none of the things in textbooks would help Wallace. The scheming rat knew it, too. He knew it would take more than thumb-screws and an iron maiden to hit Vetinari where it hurt. But Wallace was no fool. He would do something. . . something that would hurt. Something that would make the Patrician flinch. And there wasn't a damn thing Vetinari could do about it. Alone, in his dark cell, he began to laugh again.  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
I realize it's gotten kind of. . . weird. What with Vetinari sort of going off his nut and all. . . actually, I'm reading a Stephen King novel right now, so I'm all like "ooooh, scary. . .". by the time the element of humor re-enters the story, I should be reading Feet of Clay or Hogfather, whichever comes first. (I'm going to have to skip Jingo for now. The bookstore didn't have it.) so I'll be in a more Pratchett-esque state of mind. The devil made me do it. God, I love that phrase. 


	4. Storm

Power Play: Chapter 4: Storm  
  
By Tinselcat  
  
Rating: R  
  
Disclaimer: Vimes, Vetinari, Drumknott, Carrot, Angua, Unseen University Ankh-Morpork and Discworld are creations and property of the amazing Terry Pratchett *bows*, and no profit is being made from the use of the copyrighted material (if there was, I wouldn't have to worry about paying off my student loans, dammit!!).  
  
Author's Note: I am soooo sorry it's been so long since the last update. And I'm sorry this chapter is so damn short. I'm mad busy, yo. I feel bad for not updating in awhile, so I thought I'd post what I have so far, regardless of the fact that it's only, like, two paragraphs long.  
  
Warning: this is the chapter where it all goes to hell. Most of you probably saw this coming. Well, this is the chapter where it comes. Just to warn the more delicate readers, this is not a fun, happy chapter. There's Vetinari-hurting in this one. Don't say I didn't warn you.  
  
****************  
  
Stinging wind whistled through the rubbery branches of the only trees that had the mettle to grow this near the hub. Snow hardly seemed to fall, but instead swirl around the trunks and drifts, as if mocking the ground. Very few living things could be found here, and in such a storm, most had the sense to stay the hell out of it. But then again, the instinctually- oriented psyche of animals was often much more sensible than more evolved forms of life.  
  
The heavy hoof-beats were unheard beneath the shrill wind, although the gray, hulking form of a large horse was pretty hard to miss. Both horse and rider had their heads bent, eyes slitted against the cold. The horse seemed much less concerned about the possibility of freezing to death than the rider, and would occasionally bite a passing branch and munch on it thoughtfully. The rider was still, letting the horse do its own steering. As long as they progressed in an approximately rimwards direction, she was pleased. All at once, her head snapped up sharply as a faint howl, born on the wind, reached her ears. A wolf? No. . . too shrill. Too uncontrolled. She gave the reins a mild tug to stop the horse. She sat still, her small form swaying ever so slightly from the force of the wind. The cry came again. She squinted her eyes toward the gray sky to see and odd shape flipping and flapping toward the ground. Before the small thing hit, her hand darted out to grab it.  
  
The small dragon, upon finding itself no longer at the mercy of the elements, immediately dove down his rescuer's shirt, letting the crusted ice melt against the comfy cleavage. This elicited a shriek from the rider, who tried to swat the errant lump in her shirt, and only succeeded in punching herself in the solar plexus. Grumbling in uncomfortable resignation, she reached down her shirt and, after rummaging around for a few moments, produced a wet piece of paper, rolled up, a bit crumpled and singed around the edges. She made a small exclamation of surprise at the seal before breaking it and unrolling the message. After a few moments, she gave a small, strangled cry.  
  
Seizing the reins, she gave them a sharp jerk, perhaps sharper than she meant, and kicked the horse's flanks with her booted heels. The horse commenced a brisk trot. She tried to urge him on to a faster pace.  
  
************************  
  
Vetinari could feel the bruises forming on his shoulders from the large fingers that dug into them. His eyes were screwed shut, as if blocking out the sight of the dungeon floor might make it go away. Predictably, it didn't, and the rough stone chaffed against the scruff on his cheek, and the sensitive flesh of his stomach. He tried to remain detached from the situation, look at it from a cold, analyst's perspective. The goon on top of him was certainly having a good time. Every grunt sounded like a grin. Vetinari felt warm blood trickle from his clenched fists, tied behind his back, as it did from his bottom lip. It hurt, but it helped. It was controlled. Controlled by him. His faceless captor was almost done, and still Vetinari had maintained his demeanor. Twice now he had been tested and twice now he had remained silent and cold, no matter how brutally they beat him.  
  
Relief, even if only for the slightest moment, was like an oasis when the faceless thug finished and climbed off of him, standing up and nudging Vetinari's prone form with his foot, as if testing to see if he were still alive. Vetinari let out the breath he wasn't aware that he was holding. He clenched his jaws together to keep from grunting as he rolled over on his side. His backside felt like it was on fire.  
  
"Comfortable?" Wallace appeared in the doorway and looked down on his captive.  
  
Vetinari was already trembling weakly, but managed to meet Wallace's gaze unwaveringly. He'd known that it would come to Wallace eventually. The bastard wouldn't let this end without having the satisfaction of the last screw.  
  
"It seems my men have been rough. Although I hear you politician-types are into that." He knelt next to his victim. Vetinari was radiating body heat like the sun gave light. It smelled like blood and fear: the toxic cocktail that drove any predator wild.  
  
"What. . ." Vetinari rasped, breath grating through his raw throat. He coughed and continued, "What. . . do you. . . want. . .?" He spoke through bared teeth, becoming almost animal-like in his own desperation.  
  
Wallace leaned down and reached for Vetinari's shoulder. The patrician instinctively moved away, but clearly wasn't going far. He gave an involuntary jerk as Wallace curled an arm around his bruised shoulders. With his other hand, Wallace gently, but firmly, grasped Vetinari's chin.  
  
"You know what I want." He said softly, as if murmuring to a lover. He then placed an almost chaste kiss on Vetinari's chapped lips, simply pressing his own mouth to the patricians for several moments, before breaking it off.  
  
He gave a knowing smile as Vetinari went limp and began to scream.  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
*sniff, sniff* I make myself sad. . . but I won't leave it like this! Have faith! Don't hurt me! 


	5. Breaking Ranks

Power Play: Chapter 5: Breaking Ranks  
  
By Tinselcat  
  
Rated: R for violence  
  
Disclaimer: All characters and places (and most nouns) belong to Terry Pratchett and are used without permission. Don't sue. The only thing I have of value is my computer (which is full of my crappy artwork) and my fish (who has mood swings).  
  
Author's Note: Here's another chapter! For the love of god, don't kill me!  
  
**************************  
  
Vimes tried to light his cigar. The hand holding the match trembled so badly, he wondered if it was even his own. He finally tossed the cigar to the floor in frustration and pinched out the match. Was this what happened when you lacked for sleep? Gods, he might as well be drunk. He stared at his desk, the myriad of papers seeming to melt and merge into one another until it became mere blotches of yellow-white and gray. He stared at it. It offered no answers, no insight, nothing. Just sat there like a big. . . like a big. . . like a big fucking pile of paper. Almost two weeks had gone by since the Patrician's disappearance. . . god, it seemed like a lifetime. . . and for all of those days he had been pushing the watch to full capacity. They didn't complain. It was never a good idea to complain to Vimes anyway. He could see their fatigue. And they could see his. The watchmen close enough to him to risk being yelled at told him so. He wasn't sure when he had last been home. Sybil had stopped in several times to bring the watchmen food. It was the ones he trusted that he was pushing the hardest: Carrot, Angua, Dorfl, Cheri, Nobby, Colon and Detritus. They had all been pulling overtime shifts, patrolling the city in a grid work pattern, trying to pick up anything they had missed, sleeping for only three or four hours at a time at the watch-house. But they would keep going until this thing was over. He knew that much about them: they would share in his tenacity without hesitation or question.  
  
There was a knock on the door.  
  
Vimes jerked upright and realized that he had dozed. He wondered how long he had been like that.  
  
He cleared his throat, "Come in."  
  
Angua and Carrot, the practically inseparable pair, stepped inside and saluted smartly.  
  
Vimes had considered assigning them to different shifts, concerned that their personal feelings for each other would interfere with their jobs, but so far he hadn't been given any reason to believe that they were being distracted. "Good watchmen. . . women. . ." he mumbled.  
  
"Pardon, sir?" Angua raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Er. . . nothing. What is it?"  
  
Carrot cleared his throat and tapped his cheek with a finger.  
  
"Eh? What?" Vimes squinted at the cryptic gesture.  
  
"Ah, sir, you have. . . on your cheek. . ." Angua did the same.  
  
Vimes's hand flew to his face and hastily removed the piece of paper that had stuck to his cheek by way of drool. "Yes, thank you, just going over some paperwork." He muttered, shuffling the mass of parchments around on his desk, trying to make them appeared more organized, but failing miserably. "What do you have to tell me?" He asked, folding his hands on his desk and looking up at them.  
  
"We were on patrol in the shades last night and I think I picked up that scent that a lost when I was tracking the kidnapper before."  
  
Vimes stood up so quickly he knocked over his chair, "What?!"  
  
"I can't be positive sir, but I think I may have found the place. . ."  
  
Vimes immediately started barking orders, "Carrot, rally the men. Rally the women, too. Tell everyone to. . . to. . . to do something!" looking like a lunatic on the edge of a precipice, he waved his arms and shouted, "somebody do something!"  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
It took Vimes and company a mere two hours to organize and initiate an attack on the decrepit building that Angua had indicated as the likely hideout. By that time, Vimes had had enough of caution. The only thing left for him was to run in, sword drawn, yelling at the top of his voice. They were surprised to find the place quite lightly guarded. Carrot was the first one to break into the cell where Vetinari was being kept. He called for Vimes before making any moves. He paused in the doorway. The echoes of the Watch taking care of the scattered guards seemed muffled as he stepped through. There was just enough light to see the starkly pale figure huddled in a corner. Vimes licked his dry lips and approached the still form, unconsciously treading softly and silently, as if the slightest sound might shatter the man that he'd finally found.  
  
He knelt beside Vetinari, flinching as he saw the angry red welts on his back; a mockery of the lines of his ribs.  
  
"Lord Vetinari..." Vimes whispered, reaching out a hand that hovered uncertainly over the Patrician's bruised shoulder. He felt like he was hallucinating, or dreaming, and any moment he would wake up at his paper- covered desk. This wasn't true. Vetinari was unmovable. He was solid. Invulnerable. There was nothing about the man that could be intimidated or fooled. And yet, here he was, kneeling beside a man who was human: hurt, exposed, curled into a fetal position. He lightly touched a finger to Vetinari's shoulder, and nearly jumped a foot in the air as the Patrician jerked.  
  
He murmured something that was almost a sigh and twitched again. Vimes looked over his shoulder at Carrot who was standing strictly to attention, which could inspire confidence in any uncertain situation. "Carrot. . . uh. . . get. . . get. . ." he looked helplessly back-and-forth between Carrot and Vetinari, gesturing helplessly with his hand.  
  
"Shall I acquire a stretcher, sir, and send for Igor?"  
  
"Yes! That's exactly what you should do! Go do it!"  
  
Carrot saluted and turned about, marching out briskly.  
  
Vimes opened his mouth to address the patrician again, but simply let out his breath all at once, realizing that even if the patrician could be roused enough to recognize him, he would still, eventually, have to touch him. Physically. Which just seemed. . . strange. One didn't *touch* Vetinari, not if they wished to retain use of their hand.  
  
But he wasn't looking down upon the ruler of Ankh-Morpork right now, was he? He was looking down upon a man who had been captured and tortured. Suddenly, Vetinari, one of the most powerful people on the face of the Disc, was just another guy doing his job, who had been wronged.  
  
Vimes took off his cloak and gently settled it over Vetinari's huddled form. Taking a breath, he slid his hands beneath Vetinari's shoulder's and knees and slowly picked him up. He was alarmingly light, even for someone as naturally slim as him. To hell with waiting for the stretcher, he was going to get Vetinari out of here now.  
  
Vetinari groaned; a pained sound that rattled through his throat.  
  
"Sir?" Vimes whispered hopefully, "can you hear me, Sir?"  
  
Vetinari's chapped lips worked several times before he rasped weakly, "D- don't. . ." He licked his lips, his eyelids fluttering, "I'll kill you. . ."  
  
"Sir, it's Commander Vimes. I'm not going to hurt you. . . I'm. . ." He cleared his throat, "We're. . . we're going to take care of you, Sir."  
  
Suddenly, Vetinari raised his head, his eyes seeming to finally focus on the present as he squinted. "Vimes?" he whispered, before going limp with a sigh.  
  
Vimes held Vetinari a little closer to his chest as he left the dungeon.  
  
*********************************  
  
Rincewind awoke from his uneasy slumber with a jerk, his head snapping up from its resting place on the back of his hand. He flinched as his neck cracked, but ignored the cramp as his attention was drawn to the noise that awoke him. He rose from the chair in the anteroom to Vetinari's office where he'd taken up a temporary residence, much to Drumknott's disapproval.  
  
He staggered unsteadily to the door to the hallway and peered out to see a watchman pounding down the hallway in his direction. He was shoved out of the way from behind by Drumknott, who had also heard the slam of a door.  
  
"What? What is it? Is there any news?"  
  
Rincewind sniffed to himself. That Drumknott had no business giving *him* disapproving looks: His hair was just as rumpled and the circles under his eyes were just as big, from his constant vigil at his desk.  
  
"Sir!" the Watchman saluted smartly, "We've retrieved Lord Vetinari, Sir, and he's being brought to the palace right now!"  
  
Silence followed his proclamation.  
  
The watchmen fidgeted uncomfortably under the shocked stares of the two men in front of him.  
  
Slowly, almost in unison, Rincewind and Drumknott turned to look at each other, and as if their brains were operating at an identical frequency (unlikely. . .), they both began to run down the corridor in the direction that the watchman had come from.  
  
The watchman stared down the hallway after them. He waited absently for one of them to come back and tell him what to do. No such directions were forthcoming.  
  
He walked back down the corridor, and tried to look like he was involved in something productive.  
  
*************  
  
Yes, I know it's short, but I think I'll probably be posting shorter chapters, because then I'll post more frequently. I swear to god, if you throw that Molotov Cocktail at me, I won't be able to finish the story, and then where would we be? 


	6. Moving On

Power Play: Chapter 6: Moving On  
  
By Tinselcat  
  
Rated: R for violence  
  
Disclaimer: All characters and places (and most nouns) belong to Terry Pratchett and are used without permission (except for Brian, which I doubt he would want anyway). Don't sue. The only thing I have of value is my computer (which is full of my crappy artwork) and my fish (who has mood swings).  
  
Author's Note: Hey, look, another short chapter. How about that?  
  
**************************  
  
***************  
  
Brian, rain dripping from her cloak and hood, pounded down the hallway toward the Oblong Office. It was empty. She grabbed a lamp-lighter by the arm as he passed.  
  
"Vetinar. . ." she gasped.  
  
"In his sleeping quarters," the servant stammered, looking wide-eyed at the frantic woman in front of him, "The watch found him yesterday. But he's not taking visitors. . ." The servant's words were lost on the short, wet visitor who was already slipping across the smooth, polished floor to the nearest stairs.  
  
Rincewind scrambled to his feet in blind panic from his position leaned up against the wall, when he saw the wet, bedraggled and accelerating form of his worst nightmare (Brian) barreling down the hallway toward him. Unable to stop herself due to the forward momentum and the wetness of her boots, she skidded across the floor, flew past Rincewind and crashed into the door to Vetinari's bedroom.  
  
The door opened a crack to reveal the doctor's worried face, "yes?" He looked uncertainly down at the sprawled, stunned girl lying on the floor in a slowly expanding puddle of water.  
  
Rincewind seized the opportunity and dashed up to the door, eliciting a groan from Brian as he stepped on her, "I want to come in!"  
  
The doctor scowled at him from behind his spectacles, "I've already told you, Mr. Rincewind, milord is not taking visitors. Please, stop knocking on the door."  
  
The door was shut harshly in his face.  
  
He turned around and scowled at Brian, "Oh, don't get up, please. It's not like I need help getting into that room!"  
  
She sat up and shook her head, spattering the front of Rincewind's robe.  
  
"It's not like I want to know if he's alright" his voice began to get shrill, "It's not like I even *need* to know! It's not like I-"He suddenly fell silent, curbing himself just in time to stop the utterance of something that he wouldn't be able to take back, even if it were true. His temporary bout of backbone melted and he resumed his usual uncertain hunch, rubbing his hands over and over themselves to give them something to do.  
  
Brian stood up and tried to look tall and businesslike with a growing welt on her forehead. "How is he?"  
  
"How would I know?" moaned Rincewind, "they haven't let me see him. Not once." He rubbed his hands over his tired face, "The only people to go in there are the Doctor and Mr. Drumknott, and they're not talking."  
  
The sound of approaching footfalls bounced off of the stone walls and Commander Vimes came into view, looking very pissed off.  
  
Saying nothing, he immediately strode to the door and pounded on it, using his best, most commanding copper voice to demand admission.  
  
"You'll have to wait like all the rest, I'm afraid." Came the muffled reply from inside.  
  
"I don't recall asking you here to deal with this, *doctor*," Vimes spat the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth, "I sent another specialist up here, one who knows what he's doing!"  
  
The door opened a crack and the doctor poked his scowling face out. His expression clearly conveyed the disapproval he had for Vimes' conduct. He adjusted his spectacles, "Are you referring to the horse physician?"  
  
Vimes paused a moment, his integrity combating his dignity. Integrity won. "Yes, I bloody well am! Now where is he?"  
  
"I sent him away. He obviously had no skill in the treatment of human beings." The doctor sneered.  
  
"He's treated more watchmen than you can count!"  
  
"Precisely, Mr. Vimes."  
  
The door was slammed in Vimes' face.  
  
The commander of the watch whirled around. His two-person audience flinched at his expression, and for a moment feared for their health and safety.  
  
Vimes squinted at them. He thrust a finger at Rincewind, who gave a cry of alarm.  
  
"You! You're that wizard from the university. What are you doing here?" he strode up to the unfortunate wizard and thrust his face mere inches from Rincewind's, "Did you have something to do with this?"  
  
Rincewind's jaw opened and shut silently as his mind raced through the reasons, both real and imagined, that this man would want to disembowel him. Policemen made him nervous. He felt guilty, even if he had done nothing wrong. At least, nothing that they could possibly know about. Of course, in a mind such as Rincewind's even an Omnian nun would want to separate him from the mortal coil, so being faced with an angry copper wasn't doing any favors for his nerve (or lack thereof).  
  
Thus faced with what he was convinced was almost certain death, he had two options: try running, or shamelessly beg for his life. Although running had certainly got him out of a great many deadly situations, the man before him was wearing short breeches, which clearly showed his well-defined calves; rock-hard from decades of running through the streets of Ankh-Morpork.  
  
He decided on the latter course of action.  
  
Rincewind threw himself to the floor, grabbed the copper's ankles and began wailing, "I confess! I did it! I was me! I slept with him!"  
  
"Oh crap!" growled Vimes, trying to lift one of his feet out of the skinny wizard's death-grip.  
  
"I'm so sorry! I swear, I didn't think I was doing anything wrong!"  
  
"Look, sir, you-"  
  
"Okay! I admit, I knew it was wrong! I knew the whole time! But I promise, I never thought I'd get caught. . . SHIT! I mean, I didn't. . . I wasn't. . . he made the first move!" Rincewind seemed to run out of words then, and resigned himself to laying on the floor, glued to Vimes' ankles, awaiting the terrible wrath of justice to rain down upon him.  
  
Justice tapped him on the shoulder and asked to be let go.  
  
Rincewind released the wrathful justice's ankles and promptly fainted.  
  
Vimes looked up. "Is this man's health something that I should be worried about?"  
  
Brian sighed and looked down at the unconscious wizard. "No. . . Well, probably not. I mean, maybe, if you're concerned about Havelock's future personal happiness, but at the moment. . ." she shrugged.  
  
Vimes crossed his arms. "I should probably arrest you."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Bugger it. It's not worth my time right now." His eyes were drawn to Vetinari's door. Nothing seemed important now. Nothing except Havelock Vetinari. The phase "Vetinari's Terrier" crossed his mind. He frowned. But it was true, wasn't it? Whatever happened, if Vetinari called, he would come running. . . and end up waiting five minutes with that infuriating clock for all his trouble. There was an entire city where people were committing crimes every minute of every day, but right now, there was only one thing on his mind.  
  
He pursed his lips and looked down at Rincewind. "Did they really?"  
  
Brian's face cracked a grin for a moment. "Yeah. It was pretty damn hot."  
  
"How the hell would you know?"  
  
She just waggled her eyebrows at him.  
  
Vimes looked down at her hand, "What the hell happened to your finger?"  
  
Brian sheepishly massaged the bandaged stump of her small finger on one of her hands, "Oh, this. . . interesting story about that, you see, I was up near the hub, and I was attacked by this group of the most lecherous old men in leather underwear that I've ever seen! One of them tried to make love to me, while another one in a wheelchair bit my finger off! You can't imagine how insulted I was! Well, I told them that if that's how they were going to treat a lady, than I wanted nothing to do with them!"  
  
Vimes raised an eyebrow. "So you just walked away?"  
  
Brian tilted her chin upwards, aspiring to look at Vimes down the length of her nose, but only coming out cross-eyed, "Yes."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Well. . . maybe I wasn't *walking*. . ."  
  
". . ."  
  
"Okay, so it was closer to running, really. . ."  
  
". . ."  
  
"And screaming. Well, I got away, didn't I? Doesn't that count for something?" Brian turned to the closed door. She turned to Vimes, all humor gone from her face. "He'll be okay, right? I mean. . . we're not losing him, are we?"  
  
Vimes chewed on the inside of his cheek and granted her a sidelong glance. "He won't die, if that's what you mean. He was badly hurt when we found him, but there wasn't anything fatal."  
  
"But will he really be all right?"  
  
Vimes frowned and didn't answer.  
  
********************  
  
Vimes didn't realize that he'd dozed off until someone nudged him in the shoulder. He snorted as the half-burned cigar fell from his lips into his lap. He stood up from his seat in a chair that was probably intended to be decorative and brushed the ashes from his breeches. He grunted as he looked up at the doctor.  
  
"What now, do you want me to leave the wing? Is my mood affecting your work?"  
  
The doctor sniffed. "Personally, I would feel gratified if you left the city altogether, but for the time being, I'm willing to put my own well- being on hold. Lord Vetinari is awake. He wishes to see you."  
  
Vimes bolted toward the door and nearly fell flat on his behind as the doctor grabbed his arm in a firm grip and tugged him back.  
  
"Commander, if you please," He growled, "I don't want you upsetting him. He's only had two days to recover and-"  
  
"Wait a minute!" interrupted Vimes, "Two days? It's been two days?"  
  
"Yes. Perhaps you should invest in a watch."  
  
"That's very funny. . ."  
  
The doctor furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. He wasn't a man with a sense of irony. Or humor.  
  
Vimes massaged his temples. How had he been here for two days? He looked around. The floor was littered with greasy papers, scattered with crumbs, which the butler hadn't gathered up yet. There was a small desert of ash around the chair Vimes had vacated. The wizard was slumped against a wall, hat over his eyes, dozing and the bounty-hunter was nowhere to be found, although her bags and cloak were piled nearby.  
  
"I won't upset him." Vimes murmured as he pushed past the doctor into Vetinari's room.  
  
He closed the door quietly behind him.  
  
It was dim and warm inside, the air slightly stuffy from days of closed doors and windows (another bright idea courtesy of the Ankh-Morpork Society of Health and Medicine). Vimes blinked as his eyes adjusted and approached the tall, thin form of Vetinari silhouetted against the window, between the twin pillars of the curtains.  
  
Vimes wasn't sure exactly where to stand. It was all well and good with a large desk of dark, impressive wood between them, but now, it was only an expanse of carpet.  
  
"You wanted to see me, sir?"  
  
The room was too quiet. There was no maddening clock to grate against his nerves, no muffled shuffling of papers from Drumknott's desk.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"I'm leaving, Commander."  
  
Vimes worked his jaw for several moments before he found his voice. "I. . . I beg your pardon? What do you mean?"  
  
Vetinari turned to face Vimes. He held a familiar blue-eared, scruffy- looking cat in his arms. He looked tired, as if he didn't have enough energy to keep up his familiar air of dignity and power. "I cannot stay here any longer. I have assigned my duties to the appropriate people, who will carry them out until a new patrician is elected."  
  
Vetinari deposited the cat on a table. It attempted to rub its head against his stomach, missed and toppled over the edge. Shaking its head and sneezing several times, it meandered over to the fireplace and attepted to look like the whole thing had been planned.  
  
"But sir, you. . . with respect, you can't be thinking clearly! I've seen you handle dragons and wars and murder attempts and always come out on top! You can make it through this!" His voice began to thicken with a rising panic. It seemed that the disc was just beginning to tip upright again, and he was finding that it was just on its way to tip over in the other direction. "They haven't won, sir."  
  
Vetinari rested his fingertips on the table and gave Vimes a piercing look. "Haven't they?"  
  
Vimes focused his attention just over Vetinari's right shoulder. "Sir?"  
  
"You needn't skip around the subject, Commander. You know as well as I that if they'd evaded your best efforts for two weeks, they could certainly do the same for much longer. I mean no disrespect to you and those under your command when I say that you found me because they wanted me to be found. They finished their business."  
  
"Sir-"  
  
"Drop it, Commander." Vetinari said sharply, his composure slipping for a moment, "That's an order. You will receive further instructions from my clerk."  
  
"But-"  
  
"Good day, Commander."  
  
********************  
  
Uh oooooh!! Don't worry, contrary to the implication from the title of this chapter, this isn't the last one. I just can't let something like this sit unresolved, no matter how much angst it generates. Plus, there hasn't been ONE sex scene yet, and that just won't do. There has to be fun sex. Otherwise the fic is incomplete. So, there's your assurance. This thing won't end until I've got my sex scene. MBWA HA HAAA! 


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